“In the Duma there’s talk of nothing but revolutsiya,” said one woman quietly, standing in the hall, eating a biscuit and sipping tea.
Her friend pressed close to her and muttered, “Just terrible… Did you hear what Maklakov, the Duma deputy, has been saying around town? He’s saying it won’t be a political revolutsiya but one of rage and revenge of the ignorant masses! He keeps shouting, ‘Beware the peasant with the ax!’”
“Bozhe moi!” gasped the first, crossing herself, biscuit in hand.
Frightened, I hurried past the two women. Once I’d washed and brushed my hair, I peered into the salon, searching for my father. And there he was, standing before a very proper lady with a feather boa and another woman in a worn cardigan, the first holding his right hand, the second kissing his left. Why, I couldn’t help but wonder, were these women-not just these two, but all of them here today-so willing, so eager, to give up control and submit to my father? Were they that needy, that scared, that desperate? On the other hand, Papa, his eyes settling on nothing and no one, seemed not to notice any of the attention. In fact, he looked frightful, his hair more disheveled than ever, his blouse wrinkled, and the sash around his waist loose and sagging. Spotting me, Papa pulled away from the two women and started across the salon. Never had I seen such dark rings beneath his eyes.
“Hello, my little bee,” Papa said softly, kissing me on the forehead. “Did you rest well?”
Averting my eyes, I nodded. Did he have any idea that I’d spied him in bed with Dunya? Better yet, did he even suspect that I’d sneaked out last night? Amazingly, the answer to both was, I knew, no.
“Papa, I’m worried.”
He shrugged and looked past me. “Faith has been lost.”
“But people are saying the worst things. People right here in our apartment are talking, and…and…”
“You think I don’t know it will soon come to an end? There are enemies everywhere-yes, even here within our home.”
His passivity shocked me. Never had I heard or seen my father so demoralized. Had he had a vision during the night, or had he simply come face-to-face with common sense? Then again, was he beyond the brink of exhaustion?
No matter my anger and disappointment in him, I knew at least that I had to warn him, so I said, “Do you remember Elena Borisovna, the one whose grandson you healed?”
“Certainly.”
“Well, she said-”
He pressed the long hard index finger of his right hand to my lips. “Shh, my sweet little bee. I hear and follow the words of God and no one else.”
“But-”
Again he kissed me on the forehead. “Go and eat a bowl of steaming hot kasha-don’t forget the crispy onions!-and then some fish. Clear your soul of worries. Eat, and then prepare to go out. You and your sister must meet your cousin Anna this afternoon.”
“But, Papa, I…”
He walked away with all the authority of a tsar who’d just muttered the imperial bit-po-semo-so be it. For a moment I was tempted to run after him and grab him by the sleeve. I wanted to hit him and yell at him, even to confess my adventures. Instead, guarding my secrets and my passion, I turned and slowly made my way through the handful of petitioners. For the first time, I sadly realized that my father and I were not only traveling separate and divergent paths but our paths were destined never to cross again.
Toward three in the afternoon, Varya and I were indeed forced into an excursion with our cousin Anna, who was newly arrived in the capital. Much to Anna’s delight, we went straight to Nevsky Prospekt, where we visited the numerous shops of Gostiny Dvor and then, crossing the street, the tall arcade of Passazh. Much to my dismay, we took dinner at the small apartment of Anna’s close friends, who had moved to the capital some five years earlier. We didn’t return home until after ten that evening, and when Dunya greeted us at the door I couldn’t even look her in the eye.
My back to her as I hung up my cloak, I asked, “Where’s Papa?”
“He has a visitor.”
“Still?” said Varya as she slipped off her boots.
“Your father has had a very busy day,” our housekeeper replied as she handed us our tapochki, for she would not allow us to go about in our stocking feet in such cold weather.
When I peered into the salon, I saw that it was empty, meaning, of course, that Papa had escorted his guest to his small room with the sofa. This in turn told me not only that my father’s visitor was surely a woman but probably a blonde-and almost certainly buxom as well.
Irritated, I demanded, “Who’s visiting Papa at this hour? What’s her name?”
As if she thought nothing of it, Dunya said lightly, “Sister Vera.”
Shaking my head in disappointment, I headed off toward the kitchen. Her name might be Vera, and she was probably someone’s sister, but I doubted if she was a sister of truth.
“Maria,” called Dunya, “where are you going at this hour?”
“To make some tea. I need to stay up so I can talk with Papa.”
“Nyet, nyet, nyet. It’s much too late already.”
“But it’s important!”
“Whatever you have to say can wait till morning.”
“But-”
“Off to bed, the two of you-scoot!”
Freezing there in the hall, part of me was ready to explode at her-didn’t she know I understood what was going on between Papa and her?-while the other part wanted to fall into her arms and tell her not only about Elena Borisovna’s warnings but about Sasha as well. Instead, I went off to bed, sure of only one thing-that it would be best for all of us to quit Petrograd by the light of tomorrow’s sun. Perhaps Sasha could follow, but Papa, for his own safety, needed to leave the capital as soon as possible. I was sure that if he lived for a while in the distant woods he could find what he had lost, the very thing the depravity of the city had stolen from him: his hunger for true spirituality. In the past several years, Papa’s face and body had become so fleshy and full, sated by bottomless wineglasses and endless feasting.
Oh, God, I thought as I stood in my room, unbuttoning my dress and letting it fall to the floor. I didn’t want to be here. I didn’t want to be observing my stupid father and his ridiculous actions. And I certainly didn’t want to be under the sharp eye of our fat housekeeper. I didn’t belong here anymore. I wanted to be with Sasha. I wanted to tell him my worries. I wanted his advice. I yearned for his arms around my shoulders, his tender caress, his sweet kiss.
Sitting down on the edge of the bed in my underlinens, I realized that my mind and body were numb. I wanted nothing more than sleep…and yet how could I dare to close my eyes at a time like this? If I drifted away, how could I warn my father about the grand dukes? Better yet, how could I keep Papa from hurting himself, from doing something stupid and dangerous, like going to the Gypsies to drink and dance? It occurred to me that I should take a blanket and sleep on the floor in front of the main door. No, I thought, Papa could still slip out the back. Perhaps I should nail both doors shut. Or perhaps I should telephone the palace and beg to speak with the Emperor himself and plead for his help. Oi, finding myself lost between three doors, I didn’t know where to turn or what to do.
As she crawled into the other side of the bed, Varya said, “You’ve been crying a lot lately. What’s the matter?”
“I’m just a little worried, that’s all,” I replied, blotting my eyes. “I…I need to talk to Papa, and yet I can’t bother him. But if I go to sleep, I’m afraid I’ll miss him.”
“You mean you’re worried he’ll go out and you don’t want him to?”
“Exactly.”
“Oh, that’s easy,” said Varya, clambering back out of bed.
“Wait!”
“Hush, I’ll be right back.”
“You can’t disturb Papa in his study!”
“Don’t worry, I won’t. What do you think I am, some kind of durachka?” Cute little idiot?